


the many man

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Army Doctor John, But John never went back to England, F/M, France (Country), France - Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Gayness, Instead he went to France, Jealous Sherlock, Jealously, John is totally dumb to it, M/M, Mycroft's Umbrella, Oblivious John, Oblivious John Watson, Sherlock falls super hard, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Nothing, but actually isn't, consulting detective sherlock, ex-army john, john is super secretive and mysterious, so it's alternate universe, the holmes estate, the press turns on sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6473818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock goes on a holiday at the old Holmes estate while a media storm blows over. The local police are incompetent. John is many things, but predictable isn't one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the many man

Sherlock has regretted this trip since 3:49 P.M. yesterday. That was when he bought the train ticket and there were no more first class seats available. Now he is regretting it again in a steady stream of "sodding _suitcase_ " as he attempts to fit his carrier on the overhead rack. A ticket collector attempts to help him; he fails miserably and Sherlock scathes him for it. 

"Idiotic," Sherlock hisses at the suitcase. He hates Mycroft. He hates the forsaken trip to France. He hates the man he has to share a compartment with. He's most likely a pedestrian fool, works in a clinic or office, probably owns the ratty old bag on the rack that's preventing Sherlock's bag from fitting up there. 

"Idiotic," Sherlock reiterates venomously, and drags the suitcase into the compartment with him. The space is empty save for a medical journal and a beat up mobile sitting on the seat to the right. Sherlock rolls his eyes and shoves his suitcase under the left seat, and then promptly sprawls on the bench. It's cushions are dreadfully uncomfortable, but he has a clear view of the hallway, so perhaps he can uncover a few scandals before the train ride is over.

Sherlock flips through the dull travel maps. He checks under the seats for wallets or library cards. He deduces two young women standing in the hall and the fate of a couple who had carved their initials into the wall next to him. He figures out how to lock the door from the inside. He is just jimmying open the emergency latch on the window when the timid ticket collector from earlier pops in. 

"We're departing in five minutes," he squeaks. "Do you have everything you need, sir?"

"A cranberry vodka would be lovely," Sherlock says dismissively, and then thinks twice and turns around to face the ticket collector. He looks terrified. Sherlock internally berates the man’s lack of confidence. 

"On a second thought," he says crisply, "where is the man I'm sharing a compartment with? Showing up any time soon? 

"Just speaking with the conductor, sir," the boy gets out. "Anything else, sir?"

"Yes. Stop being so finicky. And don't forget the vodka." 

Sherlock returns his attention to the window latch, but as soon as the boy is out of sight, Sherlock is up on his feet and checking the hallway. No one is about, so he quickly shuts the compartment door and picks up the man's mobile. 

The mobile is scuffed and scratched; the man has made no effort not to jostle it. Probably stuffs it into his pocket with his keys. Not new, not a hand-me-down. Probably bought used online or in a shop. The man doesn't use it often; it is fairly new looking on the inside where he flips open to reveal a qwerty keyboard. The keys are stiff and hardly used. The wallpaper is simple and most likely unchanged from the time it was bought. No photos, save for one that seemed to be taken accidentally. A total of nine contacts makes up the address book: Mum, Mike, Pansy-

"Fascinating, am I?" an amused voice interrupts. Sherlock whips up to face it. 

The most noticeable thing is that he is smiling. Here is Sherlock, digging through his mobile, and the man is standing and smiling like it's the funniest thing he's seen. The next thing is his posture. Stiff, upright, shoulders back, well trained; small but strong. Unassuming. Plain blonde hair, blue eyes, weathered face - ah, Afghanistan - mid thirties, strong steady hands, not easily upset- doctor? Eyes that are blue. No. Not just blue. Eyes that have seen things, hands that have done things. Steady, steady, under pressure, and then a sudden quiet - oh, an injury? Left or right, oh, right shoulder, a limp that flares in the utter dullness of French country. 

"Fascinating," Sherlock says, partly to himself, partly agreeing with the man, and offers his hand to the stranger. The stranger takes it and shakes firmly.

"Sherlock Holmes," he says, and stares at the man intensely. The man matches him evenly, eyes calm and grip strong. "John Watson."

Sherlock has never been so impressed.

"D'you mind-" Sherlock interrupts him as he tosses the mobile out. John Watson catches it. "Thanks." 

Sherlock shrugs and sits down again. John Watson takes the seat opposite. 

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" 

The smirk falls off of John Watson's face. "Afghanistan."

 _I'm not rusty, Mycroft._ "When were you invalided?"

John Watson clears his throat. "Two years ago. Can I ask-"

"There's no need, Doctor."

"So I can't ask you how-"

“You could, but I’ve no time.”

“You’re just sitting there,” John Watson pointed out. 

“Deeply busy. Planning several murders. Solving some as well.”

John Watson looks like he is trying to be shocked but isn’t. “Okay,” he nods sharply once, and then looks out the window. Sherlock watches from his peripheral vision. 

“Should I worry about being on your list?” John finally asks. 

“No,” Sherlock replies, and uses all the contempt he can muster, still staring at an insignificant point on the wall over John's head. "Insufferable, incompetent people are on that list, and you're an army doctor who doesn't mind when sociopaths go snooping through his personal belongings. Not a _complete_ idiot.”

John looks slightly put off. Sherlock can only assume that he's suddenly realized what exactly Sherlock is saying. 

“Oh, maybe I should tell you, I’m not actually planning someone’s murder,” he sneers.

“I know,” John says quickly, “God, no. I’m just -- you’re odd, you know that, right?”

“Very aware.”

“And you know it’s socially unacceptable to go sifting through my mobile, but you do it anyway.”

“Yes.”

John nods like this clears up everything, and stands up, stretching. His back gives several satisfying pops. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock snaps, wary. 

“Just going to get myself a drink. I have a feeling I’ll be needing it. Want anything?”

Sherlock is temporarily in shock, because no one has ever offered this before. Casual drinks? This kind of behavior, it happens between normal people, the ones that walk around in their pinstripes and Chanel with their normal friends that bleach their hair every three weeks. Not between two complete strangers. Not between a kind, capable army doctor and an abrasive sociopath. He swallows, because it’s the only way he’ll be able to speak around the sudden constricting pressure on his windpipe.

“Cranberry vodka. I asked the incompetent ticket boy ages ago, but he’s still not fetched it.”

“Alright. You can finish whatever you were doing while I'm gone."

It's out of reflex that Sherlock reaches out and catches the mobile that is tossed his way as the compartment door shuts. 

Had John done something staggeringly ridiculous, like coquettishly pet Sherlock’s bicep while singing Radiohead or procure a bag of cocaine and begin snorting it along the train seats, Sherlock would still not be as surprised as he is right now. He can handle oddness. It's his job, to handle odd and disturbing things, as so they are labeled by the general public. 

But John Watson is an entirely different beast. There are hundreds of thousands of demented, mentally unstable people, but none so mad as John Watson. Sherlock is sure of it. One of those people may gnaw on his arm or attempt to kill him on a deduction, but John Watson sits calmly and _encourages_ him. 

Sherlock doesn't know how long he sits and stares slack-jawed at the door, but when he comes to, he composes himself and decides make the most of the opportunity. The mobile is still warm from John's palm. The nine contacts: Mum, Mike, Pansy, Harry, Dr. Zena, Audie, Mason H., Jamari. 

_No father's number,_ Sherlock wonders. _Dead or estranged? Probably estranged. Homophobic._

The rest appear to be friends and bosses, except Harry, who is a favorites contact. He snoops through the recent calls. Many from Pansy and Dr. Zena, but never received. (Pansy is an ex and current friend but too clingy for his liking, the doctor is his therapist and he quite despises her.) Audie, Mason, and Jamari’s calls are interspersed, always answered. Audie’s are about 14% more frequent that the others. Mike calls every two weeks or so (a pub call, get together for drinks on the weekend.) Harry, though a favorites contact, hardly ever calls or is called, except for oddly timed ones at two or three in the morning. (Drunk brother, probably has problems with domestic or business life and calls John to sob on his shoulder.) 

The door opens. 

"I mentioned you to that ticket boy and he looked as if he may faint. But, I've got your vodka. Very strong, isn't it? I'd have pinched my nose if I'd the hands. What did you do to that poor ticket collector, poor bloke thinks you’re the devil incarnate."

"Not the devil," Sherlock says noncommittally, trading the mobile for the drink. He notes John's drink, an inconspicuous apple cider spiked with bourbon. "What do you do, John?"

"A lot of things."

The vague answer has him narrowing his eyes. "What things?"

"I thought you could figure it out. You seem to know everything else."

"I can't. Too many. They're like interfering signals, crossing over each other, and you're unpredictable so far, anyway. For instance, there's a smell of sugar on you, but it's difficult to narrow the options when you also smell of car oil and herbs and dirt. You've a bit of dark soil on your soles and under your nails but it doesn't coincide with the geography of our destination. You might've taken up police force but there's no data supporting it."

John looks pleased. "That's all accurate."

"Of course it is." He turns this over in his mind and decides this simply isn’t enough to go on. He’ll have to wait for John to let a clue slip. He sets down his cranberry vodka, leans back into the hard train seat and takes note that the train has been moving for some time and he had never noticed it start. He puts his steepled fingers to his lips. “Elaborate, please.”

"I'm a man of many talents." 

"Your ability to withhold information is impressive, yes."

For one moment, John’s eyes go wide. Then he tips his head back and laughs loudly. Sherlock glances for a moment at the column of his throat, then at his lips, and categorizes it.  
A smile breaks on his face, and Sherlock nearly feels out of place with the expression. His face tingles and his stomach is filled with a curiously warm feeling. When John straightens again to look at Sherlock, his smile doubles in intensity. 

“I didn’t think you were the smiling type,” John says, a mite breathily.

Sherlock’s smile dims. Was it the wrong thing to do? It had seemed that smiling was proper to the social cue, but now it seems as if John is laughing at him. 

“Oh, don’t stop, it was so nice!” John very nearly giggles, and Sherlock’s insides fumble with the sudden lurch his stomach gives. “You just seem like someone who doesn’t smile often. I’m pretty sure you were in pain just then.”

Sherlock lets the corner of his mouth twitch. John is making fun, but it doesn’t hurt. It actually feels as though John is a friend. However, despite the evidence, this seems unlikely. He has a logarithm built exactly for the calculation of how many friends (or as close as he can get to a friend) he can possibly make in his lifetime, which depends on the numbers of people he has the chance to ever meet and how many of them would ever have the slightest inclination to give him a chance. That, divided by the percentage of those who give him a chance and then decide his personality is too cruel and sociopathic, this leaves about four people as potential friends. He has already met this quota: Molly, Lestrade, Ms. Hudson, and Angelo, who he visits every week on Sunday at 6 PM for Pinot noir and gnocchi. 

He highly doubts he made some error in calculation, and this leaves no room for any other highly condoning people. He is already pushing it by not counting Mycroft as he is family and family members, for some baffling reason, tolerate each other through just anything. There is no room for a John, and he is not inclined to give up the convenience of his other acquaintances to make room for one. 

Sherlock lets John’s last comment go unanswered and his admittedly stiff smile falls. John’s smile falls in tandem. 

“I’m so sorry,” John blurts. Sherlock’s eyes go wide. Non-sequitur apologies were not what he was expecting. “That was uncalled for. I hardly know you - that was rude. Rude of me. Sorry. I shouldn’t have - that is, the smiling thing, I’m sure you smile a lot-”

“Oh, do shut up, John,” Sherlock sighs.

“I-” John shuts his mouth. They sit in silence for over a minute. John stares at Sherlock. Sherlock stares out of the window. 

“Would you forgive me?” John asks quietly. Sherlock considers this. 

“I still don’t understand what you were apologizing for,” he says slowly. “What you said was true. I don’t smile often. I don’t see why you must apologize.”

“It was slightly rude,” John says, a note of relief in his voice. Sherlock looks to John.

“But it was true,” he replies. “I appreciate the truth.”

John shoots him a brief smile. “A good quality to have,” he says very quietly, almost a murmur. And then he nods at his mobile sitting on the train seat. “So, what did you find about me? Anything good?”

“Still can’t find your occupation,” Sherlock says, annoyed and not bothering to hide it. John looks merry at his frustration. “Your phone has friends and family and your incompetent therapist, but no employer. No unnamed callers in your recents. No schedules in your calendar, but alarms to wake early each morning. Your shoes have the same dirt as your fingernails, along with discolored patches that seem to be cooking oil. Your mobile has flour in the speaker and the keys are sticky, but you certainly don’t seem the type for a sweet-tooth.”

“I enjoy a good package of chocolate biscuits,” John protests, but Sherlock barrells on, hardly interrupted. 

“No, you don’t, you just like that they remind you of childhood. Speaking of, you’re British, so why are you living in France? Odd, really, an ex-army doctor living the peaceful countryside. How’s your french, doctor?”

“Oh, _S'il vou plaît_ ,” John says, toying. “ _Mon français est incroyable._ ”

Sherlock smiles appreciatively. “ _Trois ans_?”

John shook his head. “ _Quatre_.”

Sherlock switches back to English and announces confidently, “Then you’re twenty-nine years old.”

“I can’t even imagine how you figured that one out,” John says, obviously going through their conversation in his head to find the tip. “I’ll let you think about it,” Sherlock says, and finishes his cranberry vodka. 


End file.
